A Dragon Named Black
by Ramzes
Summary: A look in the head of the most famous bastard in Westeros. What did Daemon's bastard status entail, indeed? What made him resentful? A character study. Chapter 7:) Rohanne
1. Baelor

**A Dragon Named Black**

_Baelor_

In the day Baelor turned sixteen, King's Landing woke up before dawn – and the Red Keep didn't seem to have housed a single sleeping eye. Save for Baelor. He looked pleased but not particularly impressed by the stream of lords and ladies, the shining of armours, the building and decoration works that had transformed the Red Keep into a place of celebration just in his honour. Of course, he was used to it by now. Since the day of his birth, the important moments of his life had always been accompanied by much pomp and lavish celebrations – of course, not a single one marking some great deed of his. Rather, it was a matter of who he _was_. Who he was born to. And to him, that was the most natural thing in the world.

Daemon had been younger than him when he had won Blackfyre through his merits, beating all opponents . But the ceremony of Baelor's knighting that took place this day was far more splendid – and the Prince's only achievement so far was that he had stunned everyone through his choice. Everyone expected that the honour of putting the sword into the King's heir's hand would go to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard but Baelor had chosen the Master-at-Arms' second. Not even the renowned Fireball. His second! Was he really this blind, rejecting the chance to bathe in Fireball's glory just because of his personal desires? But no, more likely he didn't even think he needed the glory. He was the Prince of Dragonstone, after all. Why court Fireball, as great a knight as he was?

It was not that Daemon hated Baelor. He didn't. He even liked him somewhat, for Baelor was just and friendly and did not bear grudges. Besides, he could _fight_ – although his preference for breaking lances over sword fights was an uncomfortable reminder of his mother's heritage. As if his very looks wasn't enough of that! But his privileged position irked Daemon because in truth, Baelor hadn't done anything to deserve it. His being Daeron's son weighed more than Daemon's knighthood, martial skills, and the fact that he, too, was royal. Doubly so, which was more than Baelor could claim. Men could admire Daemon, speak of his courage, repeat the tale of his being knighted and given Blackfyre – but at the end, it was Baelor whose favour most sought. Baelor who took additional lessons that no one else did, receiving education befitting a future king – or what Daeron's ideas of a future king were. Given the measure of influence he allowed his Dornish queen, Daemon was not too reassured. For all her charm and generosity when she felt like it, Mariah Martell – no, Mariah Targaryen she was, he reminded himself – did not comport herself in a way befitting a lady. She had even argued with King Aegon! Daemon could find no beauty in her swarthy skin and black eyes. He couldn't understand why Daeron had not repudiated her when he had been given the chance and taken to wife one of their own women_. He had sold his soul to Dorne_, men whispered. The Dornish woman has poisoned him with her kisses. Daemon did not place any truth to those rumours but Mariah did wield far more power than his father had allotted to his sister and wife, a pure Targaryen, and that was not right.

Daemon felt someone watching him without a good feeling and turned left. Indeed, his cousin Jon Waters was giving him a stony look. All of a sudden, Daemon had the disturbing feeling that the younger boy had read his mind. Jon probably had. After all, he had taken the brunt of being a princess' bastard, just like Daemon. But he didn't have the fortune to be a king's one, as well. Daemon supposed that Jon had no other choice but try to stay in Baelor's goodwill. As Baelor's companion since early childhood, Jon would be knighted today, along with fifteen other young highborn. A worthy celebration of Baelor's majority, indeed! If one didn't take the fact that out of those, three were Dornish, into account… Try as he might, Daemon simply couldn't get how Jon could be so accepting. He was the Young Dragon's nephew, after all, and still he smiled at the Dornish boys and acted all friendly, taking orders from someone who could be mistaken for a Dornishman if not for his attire! If things had been different, Daemon and Jon could have been at the forefront of their uncle's forces, reclaiming Dorne once again through conquest, like true dragons should, instead of this treaty of the King's that was to be signed the following year.

Crushed by the weight of the bitter realization that the glory of the Targaryen dynasty had been stricken by the King himself, Daemon turned his back to Jon and went to take his place in the procession – not in the head of it but far behind Baelor and his entourage, behind the bookworm, the mad one, and the one who had yet to grow up.


	2. Daenerys

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed!**

**A Dragon Named Black**

_Daenerys_

The voice came from behind a dry rosebush, clear and laughing, "I said no! There are no roses here, just thorns. You don't want to scratch yourself, do you?"

The second voice was considerably younger. In fact, so young that it was unable to form coherent words but Daemon could make out the general sentiment just fine. The babe wanted to touch the bush, scratches be damned.

"No, no," the first voice insisted. "We're going away. Don't cry. Aw! Don't bite at me either! Listen, we'll go to your lady mother now and if she agrees, you can scratch yourself to your heart's content. Deal?"

Next to him, Daenerys shook with laughter; all of a sudden, he realized who the child must be. In fact, he should have realized as soon as he heard the girl's voice. It had the distinct drawl all of Daenerys' attendants now had – even those who were not born in Dorne!

Moments ago, Daenerys had been talking to him with ease and clear joy despite looking sick and weary; now, she barely gave him a look as she muttered, "You see I am in demand, Ser Daemon. I hope you'll excuse me." And without waiting for him to excuse her, she circled around the bush where an enthusiastic squeal of joy greeted her.

Despite knowing better, Daemon peeked around the bush. His curiosity was too strong, albeit painful. Daenerys had just taken her son in her arms, his head on her shoulder; with some indignation, Daemon realized that the little boy did not resemble her at all. He was the spitting image of Baelor and the Queen – and his father. Daemon had seen the man when, almost two years ago, he had arrived here to take Daenerys away. He had not been introduced to him, of course – the Prince of Dorne was too high and mighty to lose his time meeting bastards. At least bastards who weren't his own. Everyone knew that one of the squires accompanying Daenerys for this visit was a son he had fathered on his lifelong mistress – paramour, as they called it. Not that he had kept her after his wedding. The woman had been married off to some lord who didn't mind taking his liege lord's leftovers. It disgusted Daemon to see how Daenerys, who had always felt so uncomfortable around Rohanne and had been clearly disturbed by the idea of being a second wife – still legal! - smiled at her husband's bastard and kept him in her favour. Why, rumour had it that she had even sent his mother gifts on the occasion of the birth of her first trueborn child – if it was trueborn at all! For all Dornish reputed respect for women, Maron Martell had turned Daenerys into a submissive wife. What would be next, force her to receive his onetime – was she really onetime? – mistress into the palace he had supposedly build for _her_? For the first time, Daemon realized how his uncle must have felt, why he had gone so far as to go rebel against the King's explicit command and enter that tourney just for the Queen's sake. There were some things that were not to be tolerated. Of course, Daemon could hardly teach the damned Dornishman how to treat Daenerys since Maron had sent her here alone, his bastard excluded. Had he grown tired of her so easily? If Daemon was wed to her, he would have accompany her everywhere. He couldn't have suffered being apart from her for _months_ in a row.

Now, Daenerys kissed the dark head buried against her neck and took a small hand to her face – to suck a finger, Daemon thought. "What?" she asked. "You wanted to check what scratching yourself feels like? Has he given you any trouble, Dyanna?"

The girl who had been walking the little Prince Mors Martell hitched a shoulder. "He becomes confused when we come in this part of the garden. I think he knows it's a garden but it isn't _his_ and he doesn't understand."

Daenerys nodded, turning to her left to lift the babe against the tree nearby. She had forgotten that Daemon might be nearby, her only thought was of her son. Mors gurgled and reached for the nearest branch. Dyanna laughed and took his hand to guide it towards the leaves. Daemon held his breath. She was very young indeed but now, with the sun illuminating her for the very first time, he was struck by her beauty. Her eyes shone like bright stars in the night, her skin very white and she had the most delicately shaped face he had ever seen. The lines of her cheekbones overshadowed even Daenerys' and the lustre of her black hair could put Rohanne to shame – and Rohanne's hair was one of the things he liked best about his wife. _Maybe one day_, he thought angrily. This Dyanna wouldn't be this young forever, Dornish women were lewd, and Daenerys probably wouldn't even mind, given her attitude to her husband's whore.

"I miss the Water Gardens," Daenerys said.

Dyanna nodded. "So do I, Princess," she said. "They've become… home."

"Home." Daenerys' voice was thoughtful and full of wonder. "Yes. Well, we'll see them sooner than expected. We'll leave in a week or two. I would not postpone anymore because…"

She leaned over and said something so soft that Daemon didn't hear it; but the girl's smile when she answered confirmed the dark foreboding that shot through him. And then, her voice. "Perhaps this time, it'll be a girl, my lady. Or would you prefer a second son?"

Daemon's blood went cold.

"I don't know," Daenerys laughed. "But I'll tell you it's a great relief that it doesn't matter to Dorne. Now, all I have to worry about is keeping both of us healthy and safe. Who knows, perhaps this time it'll be a Targaryen son to match the Martell one."

"And if it's an olive-skinned daughter, dark of hair and eye, my lady?" Dyanna teased.

"Then, she'll look like her father and I'll be happy," Daenerys replied simply.

Slowly, Daemon let go off the hilt of the sword he hadn't realized he had been clasping. And he wondered who he had meant to strike with it.


	3. Rhaegel

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed!**

A Dragon Named Black

_Rhaegel_

The spring they had all waited for so long gave way to summer in the space of a single night, it seemed. One day, people still admired the budding flowers and made plans keeping the soft freshness of the current climate in mind, and the next, they took their summer attires out of the closets and dusted them off. And while the warmth of summer was a good thing, the jump to scorching heat was too sharp, unwanted and not too useful.

"Damned heat," Daemon murmured as he walked past the White Sword Tower, headed for the gardens. "It's going to send us all to our graves before our time."

"I doubt it," Rhaegel said without rising. Like Daemon, he had found refuge in the shadow of the angle provided by the slender structure. There was humidity rising from the bay but also some breeze. Many a courtier had started coming here for a moment or two if the sun went to their heads while they were nearby. "It won't send _us_. Not those who are well-nourished and healthy… and highborn enough to be able to keep ourselves away from the worst excesses of the day. Now, those who have to labour under the sun…"

Daemon rolled his eyes. Rhaegel was indeed as mad as they said he was but personally, he found the boy's penchant of committing himself to deep – and inherently wrong – thoughts more tiresome. It was not even a Dornish thing for which the Queen could be blamed for. It was just an oddity of character. What did Rhaegel suggest, that they start doing the smallfolk's job and invite them to the Small Council instead? That was the way the world was – and if it were any other way, Rhaegel would be one of those who would not have survived. While Daemon acknowledged that he was a gentle, well-meaning boy, his madness would have been a great problem had he been born to anyone else but Daeron and the Dornishwoman. He wouldn't have been enjoying those fine clothes and this patience and honours from everyone – but he didn't know this. And he wasn't the type to labour in any field anyway. For one instead of lounging here, he could have tried to hone his nonexistent swordsmanship. Even he could get better with practice. Maybe.

Spurred by his own words, Rhaegel rose to his feet. He had neglected the stone bench and instead had sat straight on the grass, so now his finery in green and silver was in less than perfect state. _It's a good thing that lords and ambassadors don't come by this way very often_, Daemon thought. Rhaegel in this state was hardly someone to inspire trust in the dynasty. Well, Rhaegel would not inspire trust even when he was able to keep his attire the way it should look. There was something about his expression that showed he was not of sound mind. Daemon's bile rose when the first men in the realm bowed to the boy and pretended not to see. If he had been anyone else, they would have spat on him. Daeron should have at least had the decency to keep him away from court and not impose his madness on the world! Or perhaps he wanted to but the Queen wouldn't hear of it? The King didn't bother to hide that fulfilling the Dornishwoman's wishes whenever possible brought him great delight.

"Where are you going, Your Grace?" Daemon asked when the younger boy headed straight for the sunlit walkway. He really was too pale, sweat beading on his forehead. "Perhaps you should wait for a while…"

"I'm going to see the head gardener," Rhaegel replied. "I sent him to the Grand Maester, he was having chest complaints."

Yes, Daemon had heard the story, as well as the fact that Rhaegel had personally accompanied the man there, just in case the Grand Maester didn't believe he had been sent by the Prince.

Rhaegel turned to him. His eyes were wide and scared. "Summer isn't evil," he said all of a sudden, defiantly, as if Daemon had contradicted him. "Spring is."

Here he was again. Daemon didn't bother to hide his sigh. "Why would it be?" he asked and wondered why he had.

"Because…" Rhaegel started and then stopped. He didn't know the reason, of course. It probably didn't exist even in his deranged mind. "It is," he said petulantly.

"Of course it is," Daemon agreed sarcastically and wondered what on earth would they do if Rhaegel started sprouting such nonsense on his wedding feast. Yes, just two years later, he'd be wed to the daughter of the powerful Lord Arryn. Such a mockery! Daemon really hadn't thought that a proud and honourable man like Oswell Arryn would agree to accept someone like Rhaegel. Did he even _know_ what he was supposed to do in the bedchamber? Probably no more than he knew what he should do with his weapons. And Daemon was sure Lord Oswell knew it or at least wasn't sure. And he was ready to consent his daughter to _this_? I underestimated what a lure the friendship of a king could be.

Rhaegel clearly decided that he had made his point, for he turned back and headed for the Grand Maester's chambers. One hand was tearing at his light shirt and Daemon was quite sure he'd be wearing rags by the time he got to his destination. If he wore something at all, that was it. Alys Arryn's future husband!

"Spring is evil," he said in a not too bad imitation of Rhaegel. Then, he tried to mimic the boy's uncoordinated motions. It was a miracle that the King's son could walk without tripping in his own feet! A few steps later, he turned to go back on his own way – and froze.

Maekar stood only a few steps away, staring at him.

Daemon swallowed, his amusement suddenly gone. Why had it ever occurred to him that imitating Rhaegel was a good idea? On the other hand, it was not as if he cared about Maekar's opinion. The boy was rude, unlikeable, and made no secret of the fact that he disliked Daemon but what could he do about it? Daemon was not to be moved by anger and empty threats and Maekar still had much growing to do to become a physical challenge.

The air pulsed with tension. But then, something very unexpectedly happened. Maekar turned left and entered the White Sword Tower.

Daemon wasn't afraid of him. But he did not like his faint, inscrutable smile.


	4. Maekar

**Thanks for each and every review, it means a lot!**

A Dragon Named Black

_Maekar_

The training yard had always been one of Daemon's favourite places in the Red Keep. The song of weapons was music to his ear, he felt delight in mastering weapons that had looked too huge to lift, let alone wield – and then master them better. The masters-at-arms had been delighted with his prowess. He had had no equal, in both skills or the attention he was getting, especially after being acknowledged and knighted because, honestly, the fact that he had beaten all other squires still didn't mean that he actually had the skills of a great knight. That would come later. It did. And then, Baelor had come.

Always ready to acknowledge other people's merits, Daemon wasn't unwilling to admit that Baelor had all the makings of a great warrior, even if he preferred the Dornish style. After all, his sword skills were those of a good knight which meant more than sufficient. He might never wield Blackfyre as skillfully as Daemon did but Daemon had the feeling that beating him on a tourney would be very hard. All in all, Baelor was a worthy addition to those training in the yard, although the way masters-at-arms crowded over him, attentive to each hint of weakness and praising every skill was quite irritating.

With Aerys' and Rhaegel's lack of interest, Daemon had taken it for granted that Baelor would be the only one of the King's offspring that knew which end of a sword was the sharp one, so was quite intrigued when Maekar reached the age he was allowed to train in the part of the yard meant for older boys – or rather, when he accidentally stared at him for a longer moment once. The boy _knew_ what he was doing and that was enough to attract Daemon's notice. Curious and amused, he watched the speed with which Maekar was mastering the sword, the lance, the morningstar._ Looks like the gods have decided to correct their mistake with Aerys and Rhaegel and give this one all the martial talents those two lack,_ he sometimes thought.

He fully expected to get dark looks and perhaps some spiteful words when he made it to the training yard this day. Maekar might get exasperated with Rhaegel's peculiarities, and often, but he grew quite angry when others gave signs that they had noticed his brother's behavior was way beyond sanity. And Daemon had to admit that imitating Rhaegel yesterday had not been kind. It might have even been undeserved. Rhaegel might be feeble-witted but he was _good_. His brothers probably felt that he needed to be protected, especially now that Daeron let everyone in the world see his son's madness.

Instead, Maekar didn't even give him a look, although Daemon was quite sure that he had noticed his arrival. He kept swinging his mace but when Fireball started for Daemon, the boy left his weapon. "Come here, Ser Quentyn," he said. "Show me this move with the sword again."

In fact, his mastery of the move was perfect but even so, Daemon was left to choose between accepting a lesser knight as his opponent or waiting like a servant until Maekar decided that his lesson was over.

But that was only the beginning of the humiliations Daeron's youngest son heaped upon him. Daemon might have been legitimized but he was not legitimate; he had yet to take place behind all of Daeron's sons and while it had jarred him before, now Maekar's new attitude made everything harder. Accidents of being left at the far end of the high table because Maekar had invited some new companions – green boys who were not even knights yet and were of no rank to sit at the dais but had the _right_ because the Prince had invited them. After all, a legitimized bastard had no right to expect a seat at the high table at all – it was reserved for the king, queen and their children. And their goodaughters, of course, the Princess of Dragonstone and poor Aelinor Penrose. Rumour had it that Aerys had yet to visit her bed. Daemon sat there only when he was invited and he was well aware that Maekar, so young but with all the haughtiness Rhaegel lacked, enjoyed his anger. It made his little game even more fulfilling_. Teaching me my place, ah, little boy? You'll see_, Daemon often thought but what could he do? At hunts, he had to lag behind Baelor's new goodbrother who had recently arrived to visit and who seemed to get along with Baelor all too fine and behind everyone Maekar decided to keep company with this day.

"This brat," Aegor spat contemptuously. "This little…"

But he had no words offending enough for the much younger boy who talked to everyone, if even a word or two, even if their name was Brynden Rivers and they had weird red eyes that no one had the right to have – but before the two of them, he wouldn't even purse his lips in disdain. Instead, he'd look at them as if they were made of glass and go off on his way. And Daeron was unable to rein his wicked son in if he was indeed making more than a token effort.

"You're going too far," Daemon warned when, one day, he found himself close enough to Maekar in the training yard without anyone within earshot.

Maekar smirked. "What are you going to do, run to my father and complain?" he asked. Of course, he knew that Daemon's pride would never allow him such a move… and that if he did, Maekar would happily explain why he had decided to teach him his place. Daemon had the feeling that the King would never forgive anyone who exposed Rhaegel's madness for what it was.

So it was up to this arrogant princeling to decide that he was tired of his little game. Daemon had the feeling that it wouldn't be anytime soon.

* * *

Within a day of her arrival, the girl created a buzz that spread all the way through the Red Keep and even crept in the city. Knights swore they had seen her as she had made her first visit to the Queen's chambers; squires hovered around the gardens hoping to have a look. Women pursed their lips and murmured that they didn't understand what all that fuss was about.

For the first time since Daeron's coronation, Daemon could not blame him for bringing Dorne to his court.

She was so beautiful.

Rumour had it that in the privacy of her chambers, dark hair streamed all the way to her knees. Her face had the form of the most perfect heart ever, her skin almost translucent. The amethysts on her ears matched the twin amethysts of her eyes that laughed, smiled, teased, got thoughtful and a little sad. Her lips were not full but somehow, their thinness only made her look more exquisite. She dressed with supreme elegance which was pity in Daemon's opinion. He'd like to see her in the fashion of her own land that was said to leave women nearly naked but that was not to be.

As expected, the Queen took her fellow countrywoman in her circle. In no time at all, the girl all but seized the place of the absent Jena Dondarrion who expected, hopefully, the birth of her second child at Dragonstone, pushed the devout Aelinor Penrose even further into the shadows of oblivion. _The most beautiful woman at court_, they called her, although a woman she was not quite yet_. The uncrowned queen. _Mariah Martell only smiled, visibly undisturbed by this provocation against her own status. Did she feel that beauty did not matter? Did she think it beneath herself to try and wage a war she'd lose? No matter what she did, she would never be this young. Did she consider it enough that she was the one ambassadors and lords showered with attention and pleas to support them with the King? Or did she think it enough that she reigned over Daeron's heart as she always had? Was it enough?

Just like Jena, Rohanne was at their seat expecting yet another child. Unlike the Princess, though, she always had pregnancies that lasted just as long as they should, resulting in live and healthy children. While planning to go to her soon, Daemon realized that marital bed was something he could hardly expect of her, so he did not think twice when offering to assist Lady Dyanna Dayne from her saddle when she returned after a long ride.

Perhaps his hands had stayed on her slim waist for too long because she shot him a look that could freeze a lion upon the spot. "Thank you, Ser Daemon," she said coldly. "I don't suppose you've developed paralysis in your hands all of a sudden?"

He blinked. Women did not talk to him this way. Usually, they quite disliked when he removed his hands.

"Are you making an offer?" she went on, looking him straight in the eye.

Even for a Dornish, she was too bold. Or perhaps that was because she was new to court? She was, after all, a Dornish from _Dorne_, not at all like all those Dornish men and women who had been living here in years and accepted their customs, more or less. With her looks and Dornish directness, she must have lost her maidenhead soon after her first bleeding.

"I am," he said equally boldly. It was the first time he met a woman who was not feigning chastity and virtue. It was strangely exhilarating.

Her face became cold and even whiter than usual. But a moment later, a smile crept over her lips as she looked somewhere behind his shoulder. "I accept," she said evenly.

He stared at her, speechless. A moment ago, he could have sworn that she was offended! "You do?"

"I do," she confirmed. "But you'll need to ask my betrothed for _his_ permission as well. You know, the ceremony will take place in three days."

"I do not give this permission," a voice said behind him, a voice that Daemon knew only too well.

* * *

"What?" Daemon asked, staring at Aegor, as if he hoped he hadn't heard right. "Daeron is giving him… what?"

Aegor nodded gruffly. "He'll be invested as Prince of Summerhall upon the wedding. He'll be given full authority over the Dornish Marches. Daeron believes that he can press the disgruntled lords into submission and keep the peace in the region."

"The seven hells he can! He's just a pampered brat who has spent his entire short life taking. He isn't of age. He hasn't even been knighted!"

"He'll be knighted before the wedding. And Daeron trusts that he'll succeed. In fact, he believes it so much that he won't even assign him some older, more experienced councilors. I mean, he'll send such men with him but Maekar will be under no obligation to take their advice."

Daemon shot to his feet and kicked a stool angrily out of his way as he strode across his solar. The glass window let some dim light, as grey as his mood. So there would be such a thing as Prince of Summerhall now? And Maekar, _Maekar_, of all men would be created that? Maekar who only knew to hold grudges. Maekar who yet had to do anything remotely worthy of such a prize. But of course, it was not a prize. It was a gift. Just another plaything Daeron gave his unlikeable son.

In the Red Keep, the preparations were still frantic. Maekar would wed the most beautiful woman at court in the Great Sept of Baelor, in full view of thousands of esteemed guests, great lords, and foreign envoys. Just like his brothers had done. Was there something that those four didn't receive simply because of the chance of their birth?

Did Daeron really believe that Maekar could justify such hopes? Baelor's marriage to the Dondarrion girl had taken some of the edge off the tension but the Dornish Marches were still a pot of turmoil, hostilities, and disappointed hopes. Could a boy who had never encountered any difficulty in his life actually put a lid on it? With a Dornish wife next to him? Dyanna Dayne wouldn't be particularly liked there, not like the most high-ranked woman in the region. Especially if she kept treating people with the same contempt she showed Daemon. They wouldn't suffer her.

Daemon suddenly spun back. "How do you know all of this?" he spat.

Aegor smiled. "I have my ways," he said vaguely.

"I hope he fails," Daemon whispered fiercely and then felt chilled, for it was the first time he admitted to himself that he wanted Daeron's efforts to reach peace to fail.


	5. Brynden

**As always, thanks for everyone's input!**

A Dragon Named Black

_Brynden_

Daemon was not a superstitious man. He placed no trust in visions. He certainly thought that his late uncle was not blessed but quite befuddled. He only believed in his eyes, ears, and Blackfyre. No, no hunches and portents for him. He'd rather leave that to the maesters – and while they were at it, they'd better find a way to bring dragons back!

But the day he met Brynden Rivers was one that would stay forever engraved in his heart with the seal of dark foreboding. A day of bright sunlight suddenly dissolving into the sky weeping great heaving sobs that shook the trees from roots to crowns and caused a massive rush when everyone in the Red Keep ran for safety indoors. That was when Daemon had first seen him. Baelor had gestured at him to join them in the Queen's chambers and he made the acquaintance of the half-brother who had arrived that very same day.

People were not meant to have red eyes and the hair of old men when they were barely nine. And the red stain on the boy's cheek reminded him of blood – overwhelmingly so. And it was obvious that there was something wrong with Brynden himself and not his blood – after all, the boy was the blood of the dragon and his sisters would grow to be quite beautiful. Daemon remembered then vaguely from their time at court but at the time, he had had a limited contact with younger children, and girls at that.

"His Grace promised me that he'd arrange a good match for me," he heard Mya Rivers say to Aelinor Penrose, no doubt confidentially, and the other girl laughed.

"His Grace always keeps his promises, my lord father says," she replied. "And of course you'll get a good match. You're a king's daughter, after all."

Daemon felt a slight stab in the chest that he didn't pay attention to. Later, he'd realize that it was the first time he was shown, however inadvertently, that he was nothing this special. A girl from far away, a girl the court had practically forgotten existed would get the same treatment as him because she was a king's legitimized bastard. Just like him.

In time, Mya Rivers got her good match. More than good, in fact. She became the lady of Riverrun, in a wedding ceremony held in the Great Sept and every bit as glorious as Daemon's own wedding, although more unostentatious than Daenerys'. Gwenys followed suit and while Daemon didn't hate the girls for that, he could not help but feel that the King was not being fair. Never in the Targaryen history had men and women received the same honours. And while, technically, they were all bastards and on equal footing, Daemon was Targaryen on both sides and no mere Blackwood. He was the son King Aegon had preferred. He wielded Blackfyre! That had to count for something, right?

But he had to admit that for all his skills, he had much to learn yet. And he couldn't help but notice that Brynden Rivers received just as much attention as him from the master-at-arms. Of course, Baelor was the one everyone truly crowded around… but the strange-looking boy did get more than his fair share of attention. He even shared masters of bow with Baelor because it had soon become clear that he would grow to be an excellent bowman and it would be a waste if he didn't master the double curved bow from a Dornish bowman, just like he studied the secrets of the longbow with a Riverland one.

"You're getting better by the day," the King said when he came to watch them train, and the red eyes shone with delight that the boy tried not to betray and Daemon found misplaced. Of course, Daeron complimented Daemon for his skills as well but his praise didn't mean nearly as much to Daemon as it did to the white-haired boy.

It was not Brynden's fault, of course. He had grown up far away. He couldn't really be blamed that he didn't feel a king's son, no more that he could be blamed for being born looking like he did. Daemon always tried to hide his unease but Brynden seemed to feel his dislike quite acutely. They had reached a silent agreement to avoid meeting each other when possible and treat each other civilly when not. It was not hard to keep because they trained in different parts of the yard and when not training, Brynden could often be found in Aerys' company, leafing through thick volumes and parchment as old as to give their robes a mouldy scent. While a decent fighter, he would probably turn out to be as useless as Daeron's second-born son.

Only, Daeron didn't seem to think so.

As much as Daemon disdained Brynden's willing deference to the King and his sons and later, his elevation at the King's hands, he could not lie and say that the first sign of that was all the boy's doing. He was present at the boy's knighting, done by the hand of no other than the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The shock on Brynden's face when the slender blade approached his shoulder could not be faked. Daemon stared, not quite believing…

"Dark Sister," Aegor growled in a low voice, the hunger and rage in his eyes evident. At his own knighting a year ago, he had received a costly sword of the finest steel, forged with great mastery, shining and pale… but not Valyrian. Not a heirloom. Not like the one Daemon had received.

Daemon's hand reached for the hilt of Blackfyre. He didn't know what he was going to do and the stupidity of the impulse had him release it almost immediately.

_They will protest_, he thought, his eyes moving from Brynden's face to those of Daeron's warrior sons. _Baelor and Maekar won't just let it be._ But they didn't. In fact, they didn't look surprised. Daeron had probably warned them beforehand. Whatever objections they might have had, they had already voiced them and been rebuffed.

Brynden took the Valyrian blade with awe. That was the first time Daemon saw him showing emotion without trying to conceal it. The red eyes went to Daeron's face. The King smiled. Daemon could feel the affection. Daeron never smiled at him like this. Brynden rose, leaving the symbol of the royal favour to be girded on his person.

And Daemon realized that from now on, it would always be like this.


	6. The Portents

**Big thanks to everyone who reviewed!**

A Dragon Named Black

_The Portents_

Even the seclusion of Dragonstone couldn't keep the news from spreading. And they weren't unexpected. By now, the Seven Kingdoms had long ago stopped expecting another heir from Jena Dondarrion. She always bled them somewhere between the point her state became obvious and the one where they could live.

"Poor woman," Rohanne whispered, her hand going over her own swollen belly protectively.

"That's what ambition got her," Aegor said. "They should have never aimed so high. What can one expect of someone from her rank when married to a Targaryen? Of course she can't keep the blood of the dragon flowing. She is…"

"I am sorry, Ser Aegor," Rohanne interrupted. "I forget from which branch of the Targaryen tree your lady mother belonged."

He blushed. "Whose side are you on?"

"Aegor, you're a guest in my lady wife's home!" Daemon interrupted sharply. "Please do not forget this. Don't you presume to question her or doubt her…"

Her what? Her loyalties? All of a sudden, he felt a cold chill. Rohanne's words were something that _he_ should have said long ago. Aegor's words were dangerously close to the slanders that sullied the Princess of Dragonstone's repute. Rohanne was just being truthful. Sometimes, women simply couldn't keep their children in the womb long enough to let them live. That was what Jena Dondarrion was experiencing and she should only be sympathized with.

And yet, and yet… The whispers that he had been hearing as a child in his father's court would not leave him alone. The Dornishwoman had only brought disgrace to the Iron Throne, they said. Out of all four sons she had given Daeron, one was Dornish and two had inherited not the strength of the dragons but their flaws. The only one who was a Targaryen and worthy was Maekar but he was inferior to the Dornish Baelor in skills and he had been born at the moment the Targaryens had faced the failing of their last attempt to gain Dorne. A bad omen. Now, Mariah's goodaughter was following in her steps. Only one child, with this meager silver streak in his so not Targaryen hair. Children died so easily. Baelor could be left without an heir and with Aerys and Rhaegel being mad, each in their own way, the reign of the dragons might come to end. This far, Maekar had also failed to produce a true dragon to set people's minds at rest. The murmurs among those who were stung by the King's betrayal of their glorious past were increasing. There were those who claimed that it was the justice of Seven, that the bastard of the Dragonknight might have succeeded in claiming a throne that wasn't his but fate could not be thwarted. He hadn't fathered true dragons and now they were unable to produce a line of dragons as well. Daemon couldn't help but look at his own three sons, with their silver-golden hair and already budding interest in swordplay and wonder…

* * *

At the end, the prince of gold and silver, and blooming health was born in Daeron's line. What the proud daughter of the Marcher warriors had been unable to do, the daughter of the treacherous Dorne did. And presents and honours for both mother and child started flowing to the Red Keep and Summerhall as if people had forgotten that this child was not only a dragon but a snake. In fact, more of a Dornish snake than a fearsome dragon, for Maekar was Dorne as much as he was the Seven Kingdoms. People just tended to forget it when they looked at his eyes and hair, just like they were now doing for his newborn son, little Aerion who watched the world with curious purple eyes from the silver cradle. Daemon watched the many guests lining to present their gifts in person. Some of them had done the same at his own children's births but the presents now were more resplendent.

"Looks like she's signing us up for another Dance of Dragons," Aegor predicted darkly. "If she keeps giving birth like this and Jena kept losing one child after another, one day it will be Baelor's son against Maekar's sons, mark my word. She wouldn't be satisfied by anything less."

"I believe you're as bad a prophet as you're as good a swordsman, Ser Aegor," Rohanne said and they locked eyes. Sometimes, Daemon felt like a bone between two rabid dogs – dogs that he was fond of. Why couldn't his wife and brother just get along? Was it this hard?

"She's just a woman who's susceptible to fears," Aegor would claim. "She doesn't realize what an offense the King is dealing the land."

"He's trying to make you take a stand against a King who's never wronged you," Rohanne insisted at night. "Believe me, I've grown up in the Disputed Lands. There's nothing worse than a conflict that could have been avoided. You and I have only seen good from His Grace."

It was so and Daemon would never deny it. But it wasn't this simple. If the good had never been Daeron's to disperse? King Aegon himself had doubted his heir's legitimacy. Daeron was depriving the Seven Kingdoms from their glorious past by being so accommodating to their ancient enemies. And Baelor wasn't favouring his Targaryen heritage in anything. He could hardly be blamed for the looks he had been born with but for his choices, he was entirely responsible. He was all for this humiliating peace. Daemon had no doubt that Daeron meant well – but he wasn't doing well, to anyone else but his Queen and her people. Was this new prince's birth a good omen, as those true to Daeron believed, or a promise of troubles and war as Aegor insisted? Daemon wasn't sure.

* * *

All it took was the Grand Maester getting drunk one night. By the next evening, everyone knew that Dyanna Dayne, not yet twenty and wed to the King's son in less than four years, was dying, that her flesh was rotting, that she stank of puss, as Rohanne's handmaidens whispered.

"Get back to your work!" she ordered angrily and they did but Fireball could not be scolded so efficiently.

"I saw her yesterday," he claimed the next day. "She looked like the pale mare was already coming for her. They aren't this lucky, those girls who wed the King's sons, are they? I saw Maekar in the training yard. He's running out of opponents already. No one wants to face him anymore. He can't kill the disease, so he's on his way to kill someone else out of helplessness."

The gloating pleasure on his face made Daemon sick.

"Stop it!" he snapped. "It's an excruciating disease that we're talking about! Or have you forgotten? Of course Maekar feels helpless. Wouldn't you have?"

The man went pale and Daemon found out that he couldn't pity him. No matter how unlikeable Maekar was, at least he was standing by his wife in her time of need. Fireball had gotten rid of his out of ambition. Daeron had been in the wrong about this, of course, but where his lady wife was concerned, so had been Ser Quentyn. And Dyanna Dayne, for all the bad things that could be said about her – haughtiness was the smallest one! - was truly beautiful and so young. He couldn't be sad about her forthcoming demise but he couldn't take delight in her suffering either.

"I bet the King is feeling even more helpless right now," Fireball said and Daemon shuddered. "She was his last chance for strengthening his line and she's dying. Even if Maekar takes another wife, that will only acerbate the problems, not solve them."

That was a surprisingly reasonable thought for a hothead like Fireball and Daemon found himself slowly nodding. Was this another sign for the unblessing of the Seven? His own children were thriving and Rohanne would no doubt get with another one soon enough. Were Daeron's struggles the justice of the Seven who couldn't let the lie stand for tens of years?

* * *

Just a few months later, Daemon watched the woman everyone had thought waiting for the Stranger entering the great hall leaning on her husband's arm. Dyanna's beauty and charm looked unchanged, even under the shroud of her pallor, her pained smile, her uncertain steps. Under her magnificent gown, the scars of the knife lay hidden. A red woman, a follower of the god who loved burnings had snatched her from the Stranger's grasp, leaving her with a life on the lease and the curse of barrenness from now on, people said. Where death had touched once, life could not come to bloom. It was all temporary, tortured, contrived. Just like Daeron's rule, some said, and Daemon found himself agreeing.


	7. Rohanne

**A Dragon Named Black**

_Rohanne_

She was nursing the babe when he came in. She glanced at him but immediately after looked back down, at their son's head, and focused on putting his mouth back to the nipple because he, too, had turned his head to check on the distracting noise. Daemon waited for her to say something but she remained stubbornly silent.

"Are you still angry?"

Again, Rohanne didn't say anything. He waited until she was done with the babe and then nodded at the nursemaid to take him away. When they were left alone, he drew a hand down Rohanne's cheek, rubbed her shoulder, tugged her slightly in the direction of the big bed they had been sharing for more than a decade. She didn't move.

"You cannot do such a thing and then behave as if nothing happened," she said sharply. "It doesn't work this way, Daemon. Don't think you can get this out of me in this bed."

That was what he had expected but he had hoped that with the hours he had given her, her anger would weaken a bit. "I can't see why you're being so upset, Rohanne. It's nothing. It's just a means to an end. It doesn't mean anything to me."

"It does mean something to me," she countered and finally looked at him, angry tears welling up in her eyes. "Do you have any idea what it feels like, Daemon? To be forced to sit and smile as my husband's love for another woman is exalted as the most romantic feeling anyone has ever experienced? Do you have any idea just how humiliating it is?"

Her words struck a chord within him. The anguish on her face pained him, even if he knew it was due to wounded pride than a broken heart. Rohanne knew what she meant to him. She didn't believe that he loved Daenerys – but she still protested against his supposed feelings being used as additional arrows when aiming at the hearts of those who might yet support their aim. Daemon knew she'd just have to put up with it for a while but while he couldn't make his decisions led by Rohanne's feelings, her hurt was real and it made him feel uncomfortable and vaguely guilty, wishing to make up for something that had no basis in reality.

"I am doing it for you, Rohanne. For our shared future."

"Are you?" she asked.

Her question struck him with its very unpredictability. "What? You can't seriously think that I'm still longing for Daenerys! You can't really doubt me!"

But still, she didn't look at him and Daemon stared at her profile, horrified. Now, doubt started creeping into his own heart. All those rumours about his love for Daenerys… they had stirred old sentiments in his core. Not love, not really. The bitterness when he had been denied her. The feeling that he had been robbed. Until now, he had felt that it was justified to use his onetime love for gaining support. People were so simply made. Give them a great knightly love that had been unjustly thwarted, and they would all buy the story and feel sympathy for the doomed lovers.

Not that he didn't feel guilty. Daenerys wasn't the one to blame for Daeron's decision. In fact, it had proved a strikingly good one for her. In the years after her wedding, he had seen her a few times. She had always looked happy and charmed by her husband. She shouldn't have her name dragged through the mud like this. But what would happen if he didn't? Daeron was leading Westeros to its ruin. Martial values were doomed to slow extinction as maesters took over. Mariah Martell's Dornish retinue was getting offices and honours that did not befit murderers – and that was what Dornishmen were, murderers under a peace banner. Ladies were losing their own femininity under Daeron's disinterested eye – Daemon's own aunt was a prime example! Daeron had let her go astray and take over masculine duties. Was Elaena Targaryen taking care of her home and house? Oh no, she relied on her steward and septas for that. She was busy being the real Master of Coin, making a mockery of the office, and Daeron didn't care. He wouldn't bestir himself to find someone who was both capable and male. He was busy with this unnatural situation that was bad for Elaena as well. This wasn't Dorne where women could be Lord Treasurers, as Dyanna Dayne had once said! But if they left Daeron to reign, it might well become so! He was sorry for the troubles he might bring to Daenerys but there were things that were greater than either of them.

Looking at Rohanne, he suddenly wondered what he would do if he had to take Daenerys. If they pressed the rumour too hard, forcing him to actually finish the story on a happier note. He had never thought of actually replacing Rohanne with her but what if he had to take her as… something? She'd hate him, no doubt. She had grown to love her husband and she'd hate to be parted from him. She's likely think Daemon posed a danger to her children. The thought of taking an unwilling woman made him gag. He was used to be loved. Forcing himself upon a woman who didn't want him would only debase him.

He shook his head, as if to clear it from such unseemly thoughts. Of course he wouldn't take Daenerys. He didn't _want_ her. And yet, when he looked at Rohanne, he could see the things people whispered about: that she had lost her figure, that her arms and even hands had thickened, that she had lost a tooth due to her incessant pregnancies. Daenerys, people claimed, was as beautiful as she had been. Was it possible for him to want her still?

"Why are you looking at me like this, Daemon?" Rohanne asked and he startled.

"How?"

"As if you loved me."

"Well, I do love you," he said, feeling suddenly relieved. Despite his affairs when he was away, his constant desire for his wife and the fact that he could only see the flaws in her looks when in certain mood, his patience for her unreasonable demands – did she really expect that he'd give up such a useful weapon in his fight to win people's hearts just because of her pride? Did she really want to waste her chance at queenship over this? – were the most definite proof that he loved her. Daenerys Martell slowly retreated in the shadows of his mind where she belonged.

"Then _why_ are you doing this to me?" she insisted, rose and spun around to face him. Sometimes, she moved with the grace and ease of the girl he had wed almost twelve years ago. It wasn't a good memory for him. He hadn't liked that girl then. He had only started to realize what he had in her at the birth of their first sons.

Again, he reached out but hesitated and let his arms fall before she could shake them away.

"I am not doing this to you," he said. "I am doing it for you. For our children. We are the real royal dynasty, Rohanne. You know it. Everyone knows it, even if they'd rather deny it. The Seven had withdrawn their blessing…"

"Spare me," she snapped. "I've lived in wars the first twelve years of my life but at least the men who led them didn't pretend to act for the sake of justice. They called them what they were: wars for appropriation. Acquisition. Loot. If you have to put our family in the path of danger, I'd rather have you declare your true motives, rather than shame me, saying that I am this loveless that my husband just had to start a war over another woman. He just had to."

"I am not saying this."

"You're letting others say it," she countered. "That's the same. And Ser Aegor delights in spreading this rumour. In return, you've promised him our own daughter!"

To this, Daemon couldn't really object. The dislike between Aegor and Rohanne had only intensified with time. Yet he needed Aegor. "I can control him," he said.

Rohanne went to her dressing table and started applying an ointment over her face. "I'm afraid you won't be able to control anything," she said, her fury gone and fear settling. "War isn't a tourney, Daemon. You're placing all of us at risk. Even the children."

He ground his teeth. "I am fighting for them," he said. "For their inheritance."

She met his eye in the mirror. "I don't believe in your Seven, my lord husband, but the tenets of my faith won't let me watch my children eat the bread that belongs to other children. If that happens, the gods will punish me."

Suddenly, she looked very vulnerable and Daemon didn't have it in his heart to snap at her. He wanted to take care of her. Do right by her and their children. And the only way was to ensure that they all got what was theirs. He came close and squeezed her shoulders gently. "I know what I'm doing."

"So you don't care about dishonouring me?" Rohanne asked. She didn't even sound angry anymore, just tired to the bones.

"You know better than this," Daemon replied. "You're a smart lady, Rohanne. You're my wife and Queen."

She just needed to persist a little longer. Once they were crowned, the glory they'd bring to Westeros and the radiance of their new life would vanquish any lingering resentment. Of this, Daemon was sure.

* * *

The End

**A. N. A big thank you to everyone who stayed with this story till the end. I am very much indebted to everyone who left a review, they were a greater push for me to keep going than you realize!**


End file.
